A Detective's Intuition
by jarienn972
Summary: This is my first venture into OUAT S7 with a little drabble about one possible way Detective Rogers might get his memories back. This is a departure from my normal genre so if you're not interested in a S7 speculative fic, you may want to skip this. There's no character tag for Rogers or WishHook listed and there is a brief appearance of Detective Weaver but I didn't list Rumple.


Rogers didn't know what to call it. Intuition maybe? Some strange sixth sense? He just knew something wasn't right and that he had to find her. They'd certainly developed a friendship over the past few months, meeting weekly for a rather unorthodox game of chess and perhaps, they'd found a bit of a kinship in each other's company as well. He could be mistaken, but she seemed to enjoy their time together and maybe, just maybe, they each were finding a way to combat the loneliness.

Today, his gut was telling him that Tilly was in danger. He didn't know why that was, but he'd been sitting at home, nearly asleep in his black leather recliner when he'd bolted awake, awash with a sudden trepidation that caught him off-guard. He wasn't sure what to make of the sensation at first, but to put his own mind at ease, he decided to seek her out, tugging on his boots and navy blue microsuede jacket before heading out into the night.

The weather this evening was awful and as he drove through the blinding rain, his found that his headlights were scarcely enough to illuminate the street. He pulled the car off to the side of the road beneath the freeway overpass where she usually hung out, typically somewhere on or around that hideous troll sculpture. Truthfully, he hoped he wouldn't find her out here as the concrete highway above barely provided shelter from the torrential downpour. In the dim light, he spied her lounging atop the stone beast's humungous hand, possibly asleep but more likely just laying with her eyes closed as she focused on the sounds around her. She'd often told him that she was very in-tune with the neighborhood, although he wasn't always certain he believed her.

Well, at least she was relatively dry where she rested, was the thought that ran through his mind as he threw the gear shift into park and pushed the car door open. He wasn't sure where the thought had come from or why he was so concerned for this girl's welfare, but there was some connection that he couldn't deny. He just wished he could figure out what it was.

"Tilly?" he called to garner her attention as the door swung open. She opened her eyes and turned her head to see her visitor just as he caught sight of a shadow moving behind her. He couldn't exit the car rapidly enough though as the shadow figure swooped down upon the seemingly unaware young woman. "Tilly! Look out!"

She heard his shouted warning and rolled off of the sculpted hand, dropping to the asphalt as a faceless figure in a long, hooded dark robe perched above her. Rogers wasted no time drawing his weapon, firing a warning shot that ricocheted off the concrete pilon behind the figure in hopes that it would frighten away the hooded attacker. It seemed to have the intended effect as the mysterious man or woman hopped down from the troll statue and darted of to the south, towards a row of three and four story warehouse buildings that bordered the freeway.

"Are you alright?" he asked as he reached Tilly, crouching beside the startled but seemingly unharmed girl.

"I'm fine," she replied as she brushed her mop of unruly blonde curls off of her face, slightly stunned by the unprovoked attack, but not hurt. "What was that all about?"

"I intend to find out," he stated firmly, tossing her his car keys. "Stay here. Go get in my car so you're out of this rain." Before she could argue, he was in pursuit of the person in the hooded cloak, running out into the rain as a clap of thunder echoed amongst the buildings.

He'd watched the shadow pass in front of the first warehouse which was well-lit on this end by a brilliant spotlight, but then he'd lost sight of the person as he couldn't tell if he or she had run into the alley between the buildings or if they'd continued south. He made the decision that they must have gone down the alley since he'd not seen any shadows creeping past the second warehouse. He knew to tread cautiously, leading with his weapon and his flashlight while raindrops lashed his face. Visibility was awful in this darkened alley even without precipitation soaking him, rivulets relentlessly streaming down over his eyes even as he wiped them away with his sleeve.

He panned the flashlight's narrow beam back and forth across the narrow passage between the warehouses, sweeping up toward fire escapes and windows on the structures surrounding him. A brief flash of lightning gave him a glimpse of his quarry even before he heard the sound of iron bars clanking and squeaking from the fire escape at the far end of the building on his left. He immediately shone his light in that direction to see the hooded figure scurrying up the fire escape's ladder.

"Seattle Police! Stop where you are!" he demanded, but the hooded figure gave no heed to his orders, reaching the landing level of the fire escape on the second story, darting up the metal stairs to ascend to the next level. Damn it, he muttered to himself, sprinting now through the storm to reach that same rusty metal ladder which hung at least seven or eight feet above the alleyway. He stood nearly six foot tall and could barely reach the bottom rung without standing on something so it seemed clear that the only way to access it was going to be climbing atop the dumpster situated about two feet away.

He kept the flashlight trained on his suspect as he took a moment to assess the situation. The dumpster was positioned close enough to the ladder that one could easily jump to the ladder from it and without sufficient time to look for an alternative, it was his only option as well. Tucking his weapon back into its holster and pocketing the flashlight, he hoisted himself onto the dumpster lid and clambered to his feet before pausing while standing at the edge of the container closest to the ladder. He could no longer see the fleeing suspect, but he could still hear their footsteps on the metal treads above him.

What the hell was he doing? He had decent upper body strength so leaping across to the ladder and hanging on wasn't going to be extremely difficult, but it was in situations like this that he was reminded that while his prosthetic hand could mimic some of the functions of his real hand, it wasn't exactly designed for grip – especially on a rain-slickened ladder. He should have called for back-up, but he hadn't. He'd taken off on his own and right now, his suspect was getting away from him so he took a second to judge the distance necessary then jumped to the ladder, striking it a little harder than he'd anticipated.

He scrambled for a foothold while hanging on tightly with his right hand until his left foot at last caught the bottommost rung, allowing him to catch his balance before hooking his left arm around the outer edge of the ladder. It wouldn't be the fastest way to climb this contraption, but he could at least use the crook of his left elbow to maintain hold on the ladder while his right hand reached upward to a higher rung. Once he could reach the landing above him, the stairs wouldn't be a problem, but there was already something nagging at him which could pose a definite challenge: getting himself off of the ladder and onto the metal grate surface of the landing. The ladder ended at a three-foot square opening in the floor and getting through was going to require a bit of a leap of faith as he would be required to let go entirely with his left arm so that he could get high enough on the ladder to reach the single handrail above and pull himself through. There wouldn't be anything he could wrap his left arm around until he was through the opening as there was no way the mechanical fingers of his prosthetic could grasp anything tightly enough to support his bodyweight.

He made a mental note to contact the Fire Marshal tomorrow to have this deathtrap inspected, but he had to push forward, climbing another few rungs until his hand reached the iron grate work, but now he had to unwrap his supporting left arm from the side rail and try to quickly figure some way to steady himself until he had a solid grip on that handrail above. He had his artificial fingers bent around the top rung of the ladder, but he knew he couldn't rely on them. He just needed to somehow maintain his balance long enough to propel himself up through that opening – and he knew how risky it was. He just needed a little luck on his side…

After a brief hesitation where his brain attempted to talk his body out of doing this, he pushed off with his right foot as hard as he could, leaping through the hole with his hand raised above him. He managed to get his fingers wrapped around the cold, damp iron, but it wasn't a secure grip, his fingers already trembling as his left arm swung wildly and his feet tried to find purchase against the ladder again. He hadn't managed to get himself high enough to get his left arm up onto the landing and he couldn't seem to get his feet back onto the rungs. He didn't know if it was just him shaking as his right arm protested or if it was the entire fire escape, but he knew he wasn't going to be able to hold on. He needed to get a better grip or he was going to fall, but the relentless rain and his nearly useless prosthetic hand were only part of his current dilemma.

In an instant, there was nothing to hold onto as the handrail snapped, unable to bear the strain of his weight. He had no handhold, no foothold that he could acquire fast enough, everything in reach slipping through his fingers as he fell and before he could react, his head struck the corner of the dumpster as he landed awkwardly on the asphalt, his left shoulder taking the brunt of the blow. His head was throbbing as he rolled onto his back, unaware of the laceration that had ripped open the skin at his temple until blood began to stream down the bridge of his nose. He hadn't fallen far, but the landing had knocked the wind out of him and now, everything hurt. His head. His shoulder. His chest.

But mostly his head he thought as he lay there in the alley knowing that he should try to get up. Should try to get back to Tilly. Should try to get help…

"Detective!" he heard a voice echo in his ears. A woman's voice. Tilly? No, that's not right… Was her name Tilly? His mind was a fog and his vision was blurring as the girl approached. Her blonde hair was drenched, matted to her head as she knelt beside him. "Detective Rogers, are you okay?" she asked as the tables had now turned and she was expressing her concern for him as the hooded assailant was forgotten. He wanted to answer her, but he couldn't, his tenuous grip on consciousness rapidly fading. "Where's your phone?" she asked, anxiously patting his pockets in search of the device which she found as he shifted his hip enough so that she could reach beneath the gun holster and into the front right pocket of his jeans. Having been safely on his right side when he landed, the phone was undamaged and Tilly scrambled to find Weaver's phone number in his list of contacts.

She tapped on the other detective's number and listened to it ring twice before he answered. "Detective Rogers, what can I do for you at this hour?"

"Not Rogers. Tilly." She spat out the words nervously, not really sure what else to do. "Someone tried to attack me. Rogers went after them and fell. He's hurt. Need your help." She sounded like a little girl as she started shaking and even sobbing through the words.

"Where are you?" Weaver asked.

"Alley near the troll bridge."

"I'll be right there."

Weaver had already disconnected the call, but Tilly was still clutching the phone as she glanced down at her wounded friend beside her. "Weaver is on his way. He'll know what to do…" she told Rogers.

Weaver…? Rogers' head wasn't processing anything correctly right now. Who was Weaver? His partner? Why couldn't he shake the thought that there was something more…? And the girl – she'd called herself Tilly, but the name didn't sound right. Why didn't anything make sense right now? Just how hard had he struck his head…?

Why did he suddenly feel as though everything was wrong? He stared up at the young woman's face, finding himself wondering why her eyes looked as blue as his own as he faded into unconsciousness.

It was daylight when he opened his eyes again, aware that he was in a hospital room. His head still ached, especially where the torn skin had been mended with a dozen stitches, although it didn't feel quite as bad as last night. He found his left shoulder heavily bandaged and his prosthetic hand was missing, not that he was concerned about the mechanical appendage at the moment. He might be under the influence of painkillers and likely a multitude of other drugs, but his mind hadn't been this clear in a long time.

Reaching down to locate the controls to raise the head of the hospital bed, he realized he wasn't alone in the room. Another man, clad in a weathered dark tan leather jacket and slightly too long blue jeans leaned against the wall to his left.

"Concussion, separated shoulder, couple of bruised ribs… You're pretty lucky that it wasn't a lot worse considering you decided to take off after an unknown assailant without backup." The other man's tone was demeaning and accusatory, but he didn't care what his visitor thought. He'd done what he needed to do and he'd do it again.

"Wasn't time to call for back up," he informed the older man.

"What were you doing out there in the middle of the night? Tilly said you pulled up just before someone tried to attack her."

"My instinct told me she was in trouble, and I was right."

"Your instinct could have gotten you killed, Detective Rogers. Good thing you only fell about ten feet."

"I did what I had to do to protect her," he insisted. "And my name isn't Rogers. It's Jones, and your name isn't Weaver…"

"Welcome back, Captain," Rumpelstiltskin replied with a devilish grin. "If I'd known a good blow to the head would have brought your memories back sooner, I'd have done it."

"Yeah, well, they're back now and I have a bloody witch to strangle! Where's Alice?"

"Outside. I sent her to get me some tea because I had a hunch you might be awake. She doesn't have her memories back yet though, just glimpses of her former life which make her think she'd mad."

"I will protect my daughter, you know that."

"As will I. We'll find the hooded figure that she described. In fact, I already have a hunch who might be responsible…"

"Then let's go get her! She has bested me twice already. It will _not_ happen again!"

"We will deal with her later. Right now, spend some time with your daughter and get some rest. You're going to need it for what's coming…"

He wanted to argue further, but in truth, the Crocodile was right. The battle would come eventually, they always did. Right now, he just wanted to hug his little girl while he still could, even if she didn't know he was her father.


End file.
